


cracks in the asphalt

by jehoney



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: ? kinda ?, Abusive Parents, Age Difference, Alley Sex, Alternate Universe - 90s, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Child Abuse, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feeding, Grinding, Lost Souls au, M/M, Oral Sex, Riding, Size Kink, Spit As Lube, Top Graves, Underage Drinking, Vampire Graves, art dealer graves, bc graves is 600 years old, bc why not, blood blood gallons of the stuff, bottom credence, credence is a brat how did this happen, fledgling credence, graves is an art ho, i guess ?, if ur in the us I guess, implied prostitution, is there a tag for someone getting their neck snapped?, kind of a, kinda soft and caring graves, like he literally has his throat bit open um, pure sibling love, she deserved it I mean, single use of an ableist slur in quotation marks fyi, stripper credence, they literally don't even talk to each other they just have sex this is Literature ur welcome, which is NOT SAFe U GUYS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9164092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehoney/pseuds/jehoney
Summary: "There's a dull, clamouring heat hanging over the dark streets of downtown Manhattan. The manhole covers regurgitate cloying steam, and through this manufactured fog a young man walks, head down, shoulders hunched, and a battered black duffel bag slung over his back."Credence sneaks out to dance at the club, earn some extra cash and escape his Ma for a while. Graves sells art to wealthy Manhattanites and, at night, hunts in the backstreets.Graves likes nice things. In the end, Credence is too nice to resist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> basically I'm a big sucker for 'Lost Souls' by Poppy Z. Brite, and whilst this pays almost no similarity to it, I just wanted to write a sexy graves/credence 90s vampire au. credence is 19, graves is 658 (not that he's counting), later chapters will include sExYtImEs and biting/drinking of blood so if that squicks u out then don't read i guess ! i know this is short i just wanted to get it up and posted asap ~ shoutout to crys (@canibananalism) for reading this through.
> 
> enjoy and feel free to comment/kudos/whatever!

There's a dull, clamouring heat hanging over the dark streets of downtown Manhattan. The manhole covers regurgitate cloying steam, and through this manufactured fog a young man walks, head down, shoulders hunched, and a battered black duffel bag slung over his back.

  
Credence Barebone's long, too-thin legs carry him swiftly through back alleys, and he's wearing a grey mackintosh that reaches his shins, buttoned up to the neck despite the oppressive humidity. He runs a hand through his bluntly cut hair -there's no way he can grow it without prompting a harsh beating from Ma (anyway, some guys dig the choirboy look), but he knows from experience that enough teasing and tousling backstage can make something semi-presentable out of it.

He wishes the same could be said of his bruises. They try, of course, Elliott and Sam, with their greasepaint and tricks, but he's not sure what use their hickey-hiding techniques have on the belt shaped welts littering his back, after he burned Ma's dinner the night before. He'll have to see if he can dance with his shirt on tonight.

  
He checks his watch: 22:27 - and quickens his pace. He's managed to average 4 shifts a week this month, each leaving him to creep through the fire escape at 4am, but with enough extra cash in his pocket to buy Modesty the books she needed for school, and Chastity the bracelet he caught her looking at the other day (even if she had threatened to tell Ma, he had seen her wearing it in her room and smiling).

  
But he needs to move his ass unless he wants to be late, so, letting himself in through the back door of the club, he moves as quickly as possible to shed his coat and find the dressing table he shares with 3 other guys. Sam's waiting with a shot of vodka and a pot of glitter,the former he necks expertly and the latter he applies hastily to his eyelids and cheekbones before attempting some very shaky eyeliner.

  
"You're cutting it fine," Sam notes, "And your back looks awful, are you alright?" Feeling a hand brush the welts through his fishnet top, Credence pulls away.

  
"I'm fine. I'm always fine. I just need to dance with this on, if that's okay?"

  
"Of course," his eyebrows are drawn into that mixture of pity and worry that Credence is used to dismissing, "If you ever need to get away from that woman, you can stay with me, you know that, don't you?"

  
Credence nods, but he also knows it's an offer he can't accept. Other guys have offered, the rich ones, the not-even-that-rich ones, the ones who thrust into him shallowly in the back alley on the nights he's feeling less than worthless but needs a few more crumpled bills. The guys who want a little broken thing to pamper and he has to admit to himself, it's a nice option, if it didn't mean leaving Modesty with that woman. He could never do that to her; adopted or not, she is his sister. So he stays.

  
Once he's semi-satisfied with his face he downs another shot and lets himself be pushed out onstage.

  
He used to think this was sinful. The crucifix Ma gave him the first day she took him in would burn against his skin when he would come home after the first few times, remember touching himself so lewdly, parading himself so filthily onstage for the eyes of anyone. He'd loathe the pleasure he felt when he danced, so much so that he'd sometimes stumble offstage to throw up, his own self flagellation deepening the wounds left by Ma. But it was what he could do. It was all he could do, really. Ma had never thought him worthy enough to go to school like the girls, he could barely read and write his own name, but he could read the numbers on dollar bills, and dance to make the whole room want him. And at least someone wanted him. So he learned to ignore the nausea, take the money and wear the crucifix upside down, because it suits him better that way.

.

  
Across the darkened city, in an apartment too clean and regimented to be called a home, Percival Graves waits. With the slow, languid patience of a panther, he rakes his eyes over the Klimt he signed over to that insufferable socialite couple that afternoon; remembering the deal means remembering the man's sweet, strong pulse when he shook his hand, and how it taken much of Graves' will to not rip his throat open right there. But willpower is something Graves has in abundance, and he hunts at 11pm sharp, no matter how gnawing the hunger in the base of his stomach becomes.

He wants something soft tonight, compliant and willing, someone who's neck will come apart so beautifully under his teeth and he can drink and drink until he's sated - not worry about a struggle or a scream. He wants a boy, he thinks, not that he usually has a preference, but tonight he feels like one of those newly formed club kids, the ones who he's seen grow in the last decade and bloom now,with their odd electronic music and smudged eye makeup.

He realises his mouth is watering.

  
There's a strip club he passes by most nights, but he's never had the wont to enter -it might be one of those queer clubs. (Graves chuckles, he finds it amusing that after his 600 years of experience, mortals still believe in their ability to only fuck one sex. How unimaginably limiting.) But the club seems as good a place as any to start, and seeing it again in the light of the night Graves figures they probably won't notice another stain in their back alley.

  
The lights are low as he enters, taking a seat at a table far back, keeping his eyes trained on the stage and spectators alternately. Many of the customers are too old for his tastes, closeted Wall Street men, downtrodden fathers, but the dancers...

  
There are three currently dancing, but he can only look at one. Dark, choppy hair falls over his damp forehead, his dark, slanted eyes ringed with kohl and closed, full lips slightly parted as he moves. His slender hips roll fluidly, impossibly long legs prompting Graves into a series of increasingly filthy thoughts, of hooking those legs over his own shoulders and driving deep--

  
No. He came here to hunt, not fuck (although he knows the best evenings hold a glorious mixture of both).

  
The boy's skin is ivory-pale, but his cheeks and neck are flushed, and Graves can smell the sweet copper pulsing beneath the delicate skin of his throat. There are bruises, too, half hidden by his mesh top and makeup, but instinctively visible to Graves, deep concentrations of blood close to the surface that Graves wants to bury his teeth into and suck, hard and deep. He knows that bruises mean malleability, which makes his job a hell of a lot easier.

But Graves knows about seduction. He knows the way of the hunt.

So he waits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves feeds from Credence. Graves realises Credence might be a bit more than disposable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where it gets sexy/gory - ft graphic descriptions of someone getting their throat bit open because this is a vampire au... also tagged as dubcon bc of alcohol and also something in vampire's saliva that makes their victims compliant ! i don't even know ! enjoy !
> 
>  
> 
> (does it count as major character death if they get turned into a vampire tho)

The man has been watching him for the past twelve minutes, Credence notes.

With a dark hunger in his eyes that Credence knows all too well, the man has sat (without ordering anything to drink) and watched Credence dance, intently.

He looks about 50, but that doesn't bother Credence - they tend to be the most generous, and he'd be lying if it didn't turn him on a bit (a lot). His suit is expensive, he can tell that even from up onstage, and his silver hair is slicked back neatly,even if his collar has fallen open to expose the beads of sweat running down his broad, corded neck.

The humidity is intense, tonight, and there's so much sweat in the air that if Credence weren't so very professional, he'd be achingly hard.

Legs wide, the man's hand makes no movement to his crotch, unlike the guys Credence is used to, who palm themselves off in the shadowy corners, but Credence can tell the heat is having the same effect: this man wants him.

The song draws to a close and Credence plucks the last $20 bill out of a customer's hand with his teeth, before sliding off the stage and heading towards the bar. He makes sure to keep eye contact with the man, who keeps it right back, his keen eyes the only part of him that seem to move. Credence orders another vodka (he shouldn't, he'll be hungover tomorrow and Ma will be able to tell) and makes sure to let some of it dribble down his chin, although at this distance, he's not entirely sure whether the man can see it or not.

Why doesn't he come over? Why does he sit there, infuriatingly stoic and forsakenly hot?

And Credence wants him to come over more than he'd like to admit; he wants the $50 he can get out of him, the burn that'll make dealing with Ma tomorrow so much easier when she'll know nothing of his transgressions and he'll still be able to feel the man inside him from the night before.

Then, the tiniest movement, a jerk of his head towards the back exit, and Credence knows exactly what he's saying. He's gotten good at reading body language, whether it's Modesty after the girls at school have teased her, Ma when she's in a bad mood and needs someone to take it out on, or a guy in a club looking to fuck, he knows what they want and how to deal with them.

So he hands his tips to Queenie behind the bar for safekeeping and heads out back.

.

Watching the boy turn and go, Graves considers his swaying gait, and the way he fumbles due to the alcohol in his system. He usually likes his blood thick and smooth, finding the effects of thinning liquid on his meals decidedly unsatisfying, but at least it'll make the job quicker, and the boy is so very pretty.

He can feel his teeth sharpening as he stalks to follow him, instincts moving faster than cognitive thought, but he forces himself to repress them- the boy thinks they're out here to fuck,and Graves'll be damned if he's not going to get a little action tonight.

"Listen, it's $50 for all the way, and you pay me first."

Graves chuckles at the kid's feigned nonchalance, and wishes he wasn't so hungry, so he could take the time to break it out of him and find the whimpering mess underneath. His patience, however, is spent, and he pushes the boy against the damp wall, large hands gripping his hips and dragging his nose into the crook of his soft, delicate neck to smell the pulsing blood.

"Hey! What the fu--" the kid tries to protest, probably at his lack of payment (because Graves is being comparatively gentle) but he silences him with a rough kiss, tongue searching out the warm corners of his mouth and hormones in his saliva rendering the boy placid and compliant.

He feels delicate hands reach for his fly but he bats them away, instead cupping the boy's asscheeks through his scandalous briefs. They're so tiny, Graves can reach his fingers upwards to brush gently at the boy's hole without taking them off, earning an eager keen from him at the contact. He'll finger him, he thinks, wanting enough eroticism to get the boy's blood pumping but not enough that Graves will lose control.

So he removes his right hand and pushes the index and middle fingers of it into the boy's slack, pink lips, ordering him,

"Suck."

And he does, beautifully and obscenely, the head of his hard-on unable to be contained in his tiny shorts and poking up and leaking against his stomach.

Graves keeps his face buried firmly in the juncture of his neck as he presses the two fingers into the boy's hole, impossibly tight and clenching around him. If it's hurting him, the boy doesn't show it, just gasps quietly and mouths at Graves'shoulder, who feels a hint of annoyance at the damp patch forming, one on his crotch, one where the boy is drooling.

And he lets the instinct take over.

The craving in him intensifies and his teeth lengthen into points, seeking out the position of the boy's jugular vein. His vision is clouded with throbbing bloodlust, the lack of control both thrills and irritates him, and his mouth is clamping down as his fingers work inside the boy, rough and too shallow to reach his prostate but he's not going to live beyond the next ten minutes so it doesn't really matter and Graves is tearing through corded muscle to reach the pulsating vein, which he breaks with his teeth and fuck, he's not usually this messy but the boy is still jerking and moaning underneath him and if that's not the hottest thing he's heard because it sounds like he's _enjoying_ it.

The blood breaks over his tongue and, just like he predicted, it's thinner than he would've liked, but that doesn't stop his pleasure as the hot liquid gushes down his throat and he feeds himself, thirstily, for the next few minutes.

"Nnghh..," the boy moans weakly after a time, and Graves pulls back, realising with a start that he's still alive, barely and propped up against the wall, all colour drained from him other than the messy wound of a bite which weeps crimson.

He also realises that, at some stage, the boy had orgasmed all over his suit.

Graves takes a full step back to examine him, holding the kid upright against the wall, watching as his eyes flutter weakly and the jet-black hair sticks damply to his sweaty forehead as his head lolls on his neck. He admires how exquisite this creature can look, nearly completely drained of blood and clinging to the brink of life. He thinks of how delicious he tasted, even when mixed with that atrocious cheap alcohol, and how, at some point during the process of having his throat torn open, he'd found it erotic enough to cum.

He's displaying something Graves hasn't seen for years, not only a tenacity to survive, at this late stage, but something more. Potential. Graves dips the pad of his thumb into the torn flesh of the boy's neck, making him shiver, and drags a red streak down his chin from the corner of his lips.

It looks good on him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves decides to take Credence in, Credence finds that being turned into a vampire is agonising, but the payoff is pretty sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this universe i make the rules so to turn anyone a vamp needs verbal permission - keep ur vampirism safe, sane and consensual, guys
> 
> chapter includes plenty o' blood and baby vamp credence - also a lot seems to be happening in relatively short chapters so sorry if my writing is too rushed or ehhh
> 
> enjoy

If Graves wants to turn this boy he has to move fast; he's almost gone. So he lifts the half dead thing over his shoulder and moves swift and unnoticed through the dark streets until he can haul him through the window of his bedroom on the 17th floor.

He's impossibly fragile and Graves finds himself questioning his rashness. Will the boy even survive? It's an important question to ask -he doesn't want this kid's corpse on his hands (or bed)- but judging by his existing bruises he seems to be pretty tough. His normally measured and regimented trend of decisions has been bucked by this impulse to own something beautiful and if it fails, or all goes wrong, he figures he can always snap the kid's neck in an alley, make it look like an accident and go back to normal.

Besides, it's almost impossible to remember what it felt like to have a companion: the last left him in 1919 for some hedonistic tribe in Berlin and never returned, so whilst Graves isn't entirely sure how well his lifestyle can adapt to an intruder, he's desperate for something to hold; for this boy to owe him his immortality.

But enough speculation - the boy's eyes are beginning to grow glassy and they're rapidly running out of time.

Graves runs his tongue over the wound, feeling it heal and pulls back slightly, whispering,

"Tell me your name."

There's a silence, and for a moment he thinks it might be too late. Then,

"Cr... Credence," it's an exhale, "Are... are you going to kill me?"

His eyes are impossibly dark and swimming.

"No, Credence. I'm going to give you life. Can I do that?"

The boy tries to nod, but Graves grabs his face, frustrated. He needs permission.

"You need to say it for me, can I do it?"

"Yes..."

And Graves sinks his teeth into the other side of Credence's neck as he cries out, then the soft skin of his inner elbows and his wrists, letting his venom flood through as many of the boy's veins as possible. Credence's body spasms at the feeling, and Graves brushes the hair from his drenched forehead as his eyes roll into the back of his head.

"Good boy."

 

.

 

Credence Barebone's skin is on fire.

His skin is burning and underneath that surface, like a lake of gasoline, he can feel each of his blood vessels, veins, arteries, capillaries, burrowing and twisting through torn flesh.

This man has applied electricity to every nerve ending through those inhuman teeth of his and Credence feels like a livewire, a hot coal, drenched in sweat and unable to move an inch, drifting somehow in and out of consciousness and every so often, fuck, his stomach clenches like a tight fist, cramping agonisingly.

He doesn't know what time it is, what day it is, he's forgotten his own name, all that he knows is the man who drank from him like communion, who sits by his bedside and lifts up his eyelids to check he's not drifted away and murmurs such nice things, about how good he is, how strong he is, how he's doing so well.

Credence doesn't feel like he's doing well. Credence feels like he's dying.

He wakes up from a fever dream of a girl with blonde hair dripping in blood to find his pulse isn't hammering in his ears like it was, because his pulse isn't beating.

And he cries. When he cries the man is always there with big cool hands that Credence leans into, desperately seeking contact and cold.

"You're such a good boy, Credence, you're doing so well for me."

And Credence nods before drifting off again.

.

 

One time, he wakes and all of the pain from his body has concentrated itself in the pit of his stomach. He can move his limbs again, and contracts around the cramping into a foetal position, whining desperately enough to summon the man from the other room.

"Okay, it's okay," the man's voice is soothing, but does nothing for the agony in his stomach, "It's all uphill from here."

Credence lets himself be manouvred until he's lying between the man's legs, back pressed up against his broad chest.

"W-what's happening to me? Who are you?" he manages to ask, voice breaking out of disuse.

"My name is Percival Graves," he replies, voice rumbling low against Credence's back. He rolls up the sleeve of his button down shirt and brings the wrist up to his mouth, biting it hard.

"W-what are you doing, Mr Graves?"

"Taking care of you, sweet boy."

Mr Graves presses his bleeding wrist up to Credence's mouth and Credence's newfound instincts take over and he feels his teeth changing shape in his jaw, lengthening and sharpening. He sucks frantically at the bite, unashamed when the crimson blood spills out of his mouth to run down his chin, drinking sloppily and desperately with his eyes closed and brows furrowed, hands gripping Graves' forearm lest he try and pull away.

After a minute, a hand yanks him away roughly by the hair and he whines petulantly, cramps lessened but now dull and aching.

"Please..," he turns as far as he can in Mr Graves' lap and begs, blood smeared around his lips and desperately hungry for more.

"Now, now, we wouldn't want you draining me completely." The man chastises him gently, reaches to the bedside cabinet, and presents him with a blood bag, the kind you get from donation banks and hospitals. Credence feels himself salivating at the sight of it. Mr Graves rips the corner off with his teeth and hands it to him.

Credence finishes it within 10 seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter may include more sexy stuff, we'll see ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampiric hedonism is not helpful when you have revenge you've forgotten that you have to wreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES YES credence does need to kill mary lou and rescue modesty with his new vampiric skill, but he's trapped in some amnesiac post-transformation lull with an incredibly hot graves ! :0
> 
> what could happen!? :0 they're going to have hot sex, ofc
> 
> this chapter is pure filth i rlly hope u enjoy and i promise credence will find his way soon

Credence is insatiable, Graves has discovered.

Luckily, during the boy's five day long fever he had a chance to stock up on blood bags, remembering and anticipating the inevitable fledgeling bloodlust, but either he's lost his touch or Credence is on a whole other level.

They're on their fourth day in bed. Graves has managed to get Credence changed into one of his old t-shirts and some loose boxers (neither of which stayed clean for very long) and clean off what makeup hadn't sweated off already during the transformation. Without it, and without the ugly bruises, Graves thinks he might just be the most exquisite thing he's ever seen. He's thin, still, but that doesn't mean weakness anymore, and his skin is still as pale but has taken on an iridescent hue, making him glow in the dim light of the bedroom. Devoid of kohl and debris, his eyes are the deep scarlet of a fresh fledgeling, though the irises are barely visible, a thin ring around the permanently dilated pupils, blown wide with hunger.

This is their fourth day of Credence alternately feeding from Graves' wrists and the continuously depleting supply of bags, with Graves grabbing a drink whenever he has time to.

The boy feeds messily, blood constantly dripping from the corners of his perfect lips as he's doing now, from a bag this time, Graves' hand carding through the clipped back of his hair and brushing over the raised scar of his first, deepest bite.

Credence finishes the bag with a disappointed look on his face, lying back on Graves' chest and rubbing his hands over his full stomach.

"Are you done?" Graves asks, apprehensively. There's only been one answer to that question that he's heard so far.

"I think so,"Credence replies, surprisingly, a soft, sated tone to his voice. Graves wets his thumb and cleans the drying blood from Credence's face, bringing his other arm around him to hold the boy close. He feels Credence's breathing deepen into sleep, and presses a soft kiss to the bite on his neck.

If he hadn't been undead for the past 600 years, he'd say Credence would be the death of him.

 

.

 

Having a life consisting of feeding and sleeping was not what he expected, but it had been pretty good so far, Credence muses, stroking the arm pinning him to Mr Graves' chest absent-mindedly.

For instance, he's probably drunk more than twice his weight in blood over the past week, but there's no uncomfortable pressure on his bladder at all. There isn't even that gnawing hunger that persisted in the past few days, though he's sure that'll return soon.

Mr Graves keeps talking about how beautiful he is, and Credence hasn't had chance to look at himself but the only difference he can notice is an absence of bruises and not much else. Where did he get those bruises in the first place? He tries to remember but anything before the burning and fever seems clouded and foggy, and he's too content with a full stomach to try any harder than he has to.

Credence shifts himself on Mr Graves' lap, and feels the man's persistent hard-on pressed against his ass. He could see the man getting hard every time Credence would whine or let the blood run down his neck, but previously he'd been too overwhelmed by that potent new bloodlust to focus on anything other than feeding. Now, with a semi clear head,Credence finds himself flushing and yearning to take care of Mr Graves, rubbing himself gently against his crotch.

He realises he's never seen the man's cock. He can tell it's large through its outline in his pants but Credence wants to feel the weight of it in his hand and in his mouth, and Credence has been getting everything he wants this past week.

The feeling is thrilling.

The broad arm is still pinning him down, so there's no way Credence can wake him up by sucking him off the way he'd like, but he reaches a hand down between their bodies, to feel out the shape of the erection through Graves' grey sweatpants. The man makes no indication that he's awake, other than moving the arm from across Credence's chest to tangle in his hair, and push his head firmly down, wordlessly allowing Credence his first want.

Credence shuffles his way down Graves' body. He pulls the man's cock out of his waistband and allows himself a small gasp the size of it, wide and ruddy and heavy in Credence's hand. Then, tentatively, he takes the head in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the slit and hollowing his cheeks to suck, rewarded by a soft,

"Fuck, my good boy," from Mr Graves, a hand tightening in his hair. He tries to take as much as he can in his throat, flattening his tongue and allowing Graves' hand to push him further down, the weight of it filling his mouth and the wet moans he can hear himself making causing his own cock to leak into another pair of Mr Graves' briefs.

"Ohhh, you're too good..." the man sighs. He's allowed up to breathe and swallow, before he noses into the man's dark crotch, licking around the base of his wet erection, pupils dilating at the deep concentration of pulsing blood. He gives the area messy, open mouthed kisses, grazing his teeth against the skin, before another strong hand in his hair pulls him up.

"You little monster..," Graves growls into his ear and hauls Credence back into his lap, this time facing him with Graves' thick cock snugly pressed against his hole through the thin fabric of his underwear.

"Have I spoilt you?" Graves asks, and though he seems to be talking to himself Credence nods all the same. "I've made you a brat, haven't I? You're used to getting your way."

And he rocks his cock up to nudge against Credence's rim, painfully tantalising and causing a high-pitched wine from the boy. He looks so gorgeous, clinging onto Graves' shoulders for dear life, hips canting down to gain what little friction they can.

"What do you want now, monster?" he asks, full well knowing the answer, "Tell me what you want."

The low, predatory look from the club is back and Credence can barely talk, he's so turned on.

"Fuck. Me."

 

He's done this too many times to feel like a sinner anymore, but something about the way Mr Graves presses two slick fingers into him, the way he rocks back on them, the way the man looks at him like he'll eat him, like he hasn't already drained him dry and pulled him back from the brink, makes Credence flushed and guilty.

"You're big," he gasps, inanely, as the thick head nudges his wet rim, and Graves stops Credence from sinking down further than halfway on his first movement, careful to take it slow. Graves knows that now, physically, no harm can come to him if Graves gets too rough, but he still wants to make Credence desperate for it.

"Too big?" he asks, and grins at the reply.

"N-no. Feels good."

And Credence sinks down to the hilt, moaning lewdly, head falling forward onto Graves' shoulder. He's so wonderfully full, knowing somewhere that his mortal self would be hurt by this, after only two fingers, and revelling in how much his new body can take, lifting himself almost completely off Mr Graves' before dropping back down again. Graves groans before beginning to meet his rhythm, one large hand in the small of Credence's back, the other around his weeping cock, jerking it in time with their movements.

High, desperate whines find their way out of Credence's mouth, accompanied by Graves' low grunts and occasional endearments, and their pace is punishing, until Credence comes, over Graves' stomach, hole clenching hot and wet around the man's cock and he has to grab the base tightly and pull out before he spills inside of the boy. Regardless of how hot that would be, he has another idea.

He pulls Credence's head down level with his crotch and pushes the tip of it inside his plump lips.

"Still hungry?" he asks and Credence nods, eyes showing he knows exactly what's coming as Graves spills into his mouth and he swallows every last drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me in hell where I belong


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modesty cries. Graves opens up (marginally). Credence remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your lovely comments !!
> 
> some sad references to abusive mary lou in the first part - it's tagged but just fyi, also the painting really exists and it's one of my faves so y'all should look it up
> 
> i hope u enjoy !!!

Credence hasn't been home in ten days.

Credence hasn't been home in ten days and Ma smashed up his bedroom with a bat and Modesty hides under her desk because she knows being only eight won't keep her safe from Ma much longer. And Credence promised her the science book she needed but she hasn't cried every night since because of a book, she's cried because what if he doesn't come home at all, what if bad people have done badthings to him like Ma threatens they do all the time in New York.

Modesty cries because maybe if Credence didn't sneak out at night maybe he'd still be here and maybe she should've told Ma because even then he'd be hurting at home and not lost in the city streets.

Modesty cries because she misses the drawings he used to put in her lunch and now she goes to school without any food because Ma says if he's going to be selfish then everyone can suffer.

She wanted to make missing posters but Ma doesn't take any photographs of him and he never told her where he works at night so she can't even find anyone who misses him like her. Then she tried to draw the posters herself, but it didn't look anything like him and when Chastity found them she laughed cruelly and told Modesty that Credence wasn't coming back because he'd been led into damnation by the devil.

Modesty misses when Credence came through her window in the mornings, smelling of something far more exciting than the cramped mildew of their apartment, and she'd sometimes pretend to be asleep so he'd press a kiss to her forehead.

She misses his rough hand holding hers as he walked her to school -now she walks alone, trying to ignore the kids that yell at her and ask her where her 'retard brother'has gone.

She misses when he'd let her read to him, tilting his head back against the wall with his eyes closed, and Modesty would know he was listening from the soft smile on his face.

Ma is slamming doors again and Modesty hides under her desk, praying for Credence's soul.

Because if the devil has got a hold of it, he's never coming home again.

 

.

 

Credence and the devil are in deep discussion.

Desperate for a change of scenery, Credence has convinced Mr Graves that he is suitably lucid and free of bloodlust to roam the rest of the apartment and, as he sits on the couch beside him, Graves explains to him his newfound strengths (and limits).

"So, if I... bit someone, and didn't drink all of their blood... they'd turn?" he asks.

"Dependent on their strength, and how much you've drunk from them, of course."

His memory casts back to his intensely precarious recollection of the night Graves took him, details flying out of his grasp like wisps of steam, but a constant sensation providing an anchor. Graves' teeth, latched tightly to the flesh of his neck, his body colder than ice in the cloying evening air, as with every suck the man pulled out his warmth. He brushes the bite gently with his hand.

"You were going to kill me, weren't you?" He's figured out the answer already, the way Graves' apartment is in no way prepared for another, the way he remembers Graves watching him like a wounded deer, caught and trapped for his taking. Graves had wanted to bleed him dry, he's sure of it.

The man nods, and Credence'll be fucked if there's not a glimmer of something resembling guilt in his cold, amber eyes.

He's bruised, slightly at the thought of Graves leaving his crumpled, drained body in the alley for someone to find, but who in Credence's life doesn't want to fuck him or kill him, at this stage?

"Why didn't you?"

"You were too good to resist," and with that, Graves leans in to kiss him, languidly.

The bruising fades, slightly as Credence realises; he made this man change his mind. Something about his ugly, torn up, frame made this creature want to own him, at least semi-eternally. The thought of that power makes him shiver.

"I collect nice things, you see," Mr Graves doesn't seem to have noticed his epiphany, instead standing to remove the cover from one of the odd packages Credence had noticed but didn't want to ask about, "Look."

Trapped within the board beneath, an angel crouches. Rimmed eyes glare at Credence from behind an arm raised an defence, the strong lines of muscle and flesh carving a powerful figure on the board, backed and blanketed by dark, feathered wings. The creature is unapologetic, accusatory, and Credence feels oddly intimidated by it, the strength of emotion in it's eyes boring through the glass of the frame and into his core.

"L'Ange Déchu, by Cabanel," Mr Graves states, and Credence nods like he knows what the man's taking about, "I was there when he painted it."

"It's yours?"

"Oh no," a laugh, "I'm holding it for a customer, that's all."

And the cover is replaced, the resentful angel returned to darkness, and Graves returned to the long, grey couch, but Credence filled with a new taste for knowledge, from this morsel of history that the man has shared.

  
The fledgling turns and runs a finger over the man's extensive book collection, eyes skipping from spine to spine, titles and words frustratingly out of reach. He wants so badly to be able to decipher them, to read about the angel in the painting, the artist and the company he kept. Who was Percival Graves, whenever that picture was painted? Did he call himself something else? Did he have another fledgeling, like Credence, under his wing and between his legs?

If able to crack the code of these symbols be could, in turn, decode this creature on the couch, unravel his 600 year story through the volumes he keeps on his shelves. But they're thick, and expensively bound, and Credence can't even make it through one of Modesty's picture books.

  
The finger tracing the shelves stops suddenly, at the thought.

Modesty.

Bent over a book, her long fair hair falling over her face. And Credence had forgotten about her. He'd left her with Ma, left her alone with Ma and Chastity for who knows how long, he'd lost track of the days. His stomach falls through his feet. How could be be so careless? How could he leave her? His selfishness makes him feel sick, breathing coming fast and shallow as he grips the shelf for balance.

  
Somewhere, he can hear Mr Graves talking, asking him if he's okay, but Credence doesn't have time for him, fog in his head dissapating as his senses sharpen and heighten. Adrenaline, and something infinitely more inhuman courses through him, and he launches himself at the door of the apartment.

He needs to find her.

  
The locks are infuriating but he manages them, throwing open the door.

  
"Credence, stop! What the fuck are you doing?" Graves' authority rolls off him tangibly and he holds Credence's wrist in a vicelike grip, "Come back inside."

  
Unyielding amber eyes meet blazing scarlet ones and, with a strength he was not aware he was capable of, Credence wrenches his arm out of Graves' grasp. Bare feet thudding against the carpet, he sprints away down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (to the tune of greased lightnin') go credence, go, go credence


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An altercation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait !! my tablet has been dying and I've just gone back to school and i found this rlly difficult to write and ehhh - this chapter doesn't even really apologise for it ..,,
> 
> credence deserves to be strong he deserves the world ok
> 
> thank u again for all your lovely comments !!!

Graves stands, momentarily stunned.

Where on earth did Credence get the strength to break free of him? A ten day old fledgling, who he hasn't even trained, and he escaped his grasp like it was _nothing_.

But that doesn't matter for the moment. He needs to bring Credence back inside.

The boy hadn't left his enclosed apartment since his turning, and once he's hit by the blood of a million pulsing New Yorkers, he's going to lost his pretty, reckless mind.

Graves sprints after him to the end of the corridor, leaping over banisters to speed up the process, thankful for the emptiness of the stairwell. But by the time he reaches the door to the street, Credence is already out there.

.

Smell surrounds him: sweet, hot, rolling off the pedestrians who walk the pavement, drifting out of cars, filling his head with that befuddling bloodlust he'd just managed to shake. His stomach begins to cramp again and he clutches it, groaning at the sudden onset of hunger.

They stare at him, and Credence wonders whether maybe he has miraculously grown wings since his transformation, but catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the apartment building, his bare feet, and t-shirt and boxer combination, he realises why.

But the windless sun is beating down, and Credence has no idea where he is. He's never been this far uptown before, with it's shiny coffee shops and gallery spaces.

He whirls on Graves, who's caught up with him.

"Which way is downtown?"

"Credence, I don't know what you're trying to do, but this is a very bad idea."

"I'm not _asking_ for your fucking _advice_ ," his own assertiveness startles him, "Tell me how I get downtown."

Graves stares him down, impassively, and says nothing.

"Fine."

He turns back to the street corner, and makes off in the direction that looks the most like the dingy, darkened streets that he knows.

.

Graves watches him go, the sun beginning to make his eyes water. He doesn't burn up, sure, but it gives him one bastard of a migraine.

Credence is almost out of sight in the crowd now,and the man curses himself for making this thing his responsibility - every pretty young stripling has their ties, no matter what dirty alley Graves finds them in, and now he's tied to them too. He likes to think with something no stronger than cotton, but with the way he speeds up to follow the pale figure of Credence down the street, it's beginning to feel a lot more like a chain.

.

Home. Credence's apartment building is more decrepit to him than ever, having witnessed the effortless luxury of Mr Graves' lifestyle, but he's grateful for the lack of painful temptation in the deserted neighbourhood.

"Stay here," he tells Graves, who raises an eyebrow at the imperative, twisting Credence's stomach, and he amends his words,  "Please? I have to do something."

The man is unimpressed, that much is obvious. But he nods.

He takes the fire escape, naïvely hopeful that maybe he can convince Modesty to come with him and leave without an altercation.

Credence didn't know he had any naïvety left in him.

The metal stairs creak, agonisingly.

The window, however, opens as smoothly and silently as any other 4am entry, despite the fact that it's close to midday, and Credence has spent the last week and a half starting his new eternity as a vampire.

And she's there, huddled into a corner, writing in a notebook slowly and deliberately. Credence's heart is having a hard time soaring and sinking simultaneously at the sight of her greasy and bedraggled hair, the grime on her clothes.

"Hey." He perches himself on the windowledge.

Large eyes look up at him, impossibly wise for her face. His chest tightens at the bruise on her cheekbone.

"Credence?" it's a reverent whisper, her eyes brimming over as she looks at him like she can scarcely believe he's real, "I thought you weren't coming back."

And Credence's eyes are swimming too, as he folds her up in his arms, and all he can do is apologise, over and over. She's warm, and solid, and Credence has to gnaw the inside of his cheek at her scent.

He pulls back.

"You need to come with me, understand? Pack a bag, bring your books, everything."

She shakes her head out of confusion.

"Ma... She said she would kill you..."

"That doesn't matter anymore," and he nearly chuckles at the irony of it, "Get your things."

A soft voice.

"Modesty? Who are you talking to?"

A cold voice, a voice for manipulation, devoid of comfort.

There are measured, slow footsteps outside the door.

Footsteps Credence knows the sound of. Footsteps that herald pain, the sharp crack of the belt on his shoulderblades, the buckle biting his skin.

And as the door opens to a familiar silhouette, Credence is five again, cowering on his bed. He's eleven, and sobbing so hard he retches, trying to expell the sins that crawl in his flesh, that Ma tries to beat out of him. He's nineteen and paralysed, unable to will himself into motion by the memory of the woman standing in front of him.

"I might have known you would come crawling back."

But Credence's scars burned up in the fever that saved him. Pentecostal, righteous flames licked up his marks and Mr Graves licked after them, and he's whole.

Above all: and he tells himself this as he pushes Modesty out onto the fire escape;

and he tells himself this as he stands, eyes of blazing ruby, to tower over his Ma for the first time in his sorry life;

and he tells himself this as he reaches out with sinners hands to snap her neck as easily as straw;

Above all, Credence is strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> modesty is gonna be traumatised haha nice one
> 
> maybe we'll get back to some hot vampire porn once this hot mess sorts itself out


End file.
